House Of Secrets
by YouEmmEmm
Summary: AH. Upon Edward Cullens arrival, a gruesome history begins its repetition. No evidence, no leads. Our fingers point to crazy Renee Swan and her daughter. Isabella. Lock your doors, because something horrible has been ressurected in The House Of Secrets...


**This story is rated **_Mature_ **for dark themes, graphic mutilation (self inflicted and otherwise), and vaguely suggestive themes. **_No 'Lemons'._ **There will be future character death and I don't suggest you continue to read if you can't handle that. Not intended for young children, read at your own consent yadda, yadda. That being said, this story, aside from the prologue and possibly the ending and epilogue, will be written strictly from Edward's Point Of View. I can't say how often this will be updated. I'm either inspired or I'm not. But reviews definitely are the fuel for motivation. –HintHint-. Luckily for you, this story has been so adamant about being written that it won't let me get a wink of sleep until I type something.**

**Standard Disclaimer Applies.**

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**Prologue**

_Forks, Washington  
1909_

He stalked through the lawn, eyes half crazed as the gardens flowers flattened and tore under the weight of his mud caked boots. The rusty brown color of dried blood stained the sickle that swung haphazardly at his right in the grip of his palm. Water ran down the blade, doing nothing to cleanse it, and the harsh rain of the storm beat unmercifully against his body – plastering his hair to his face. Upon his approach, the polished oak door, carved ornate and meticulously, thrust open with a resounding thud as it made contact with the wall. In the doorway his father stood eyes ablaze with ire, in only his sleeping garments, hand clenched around the door frame. He eyed the sickle with mirth, bile rising in his esophagus at the sight.

"What the hell have you done?" His father asked lowly, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the wind and rain.

The boy didn't reply, his mental state too far gone for rationality, and instead dragged himself up the three steps – wood creaking beneath him – onto the deck, coming to stand in the direct line of his father. His fingers twitched around the length of his weapon and the muscles of his bicep and forearm flexed involuntarily. His mind flooded with images of her, them, and himself, bloodshed.

His father's eyes flickered between the boy and the gardening tool, and they narrowed when he rotated it threateningly left, right, in his hand. His wife had insisted there was something wrong with the boy, he was acting strangely she'd said – withdrawn. He'd thought nothing of it of course. Under the circumstances he supposed a little solitude was just what the boy needed. And then there were the nightmares. The boy had never spoken of them but it had been on more than a few occasions that the man and his wife had been startled awake by the sound of his screams. His wife had run to him each time and attempted to coax the dream out of him, each time to no avail.

And now it was clear his wife's intuition had been accurate, that they should have ridden into the city, seen a doctor. Because it was his own son. And as he now truly looked at his son he felt guilt seize him. Behind the anger that dominated his features, was nothing that showed any feeling, life – even recognition. Completely devoid of any other emotion.

The man's deliberating was terminated when the boy abruptly swung his right arm over his left shoulder, and swiftly brought the sickle forward. The man raised his arms futilely in self defense and the sickle sank through the back of his left hand, dislodging and crushing the delicate bones, before piercing the skin on the right side of his neck. The blade drove deeper, cutting through his wind pipe, until the tip re-emerged on the opposite side of his throat.

The boy dropped the offending tool and his father's carcass fell limp to the floor, his left hand bound by the sickle to the bloodied skin of his neck. He stepped over the body, his boots leaving tracks of his father's blood on the hard wood behind him. He ran his hand deftly over the countertop as he strode through the kitchen and clutched the first thing it made contact with, and then proceeded to mutely ascend the staircase leading toward the second story of the house. At the top of the stairs he didn't spare a glance to any of the doors, not stopping in the hall until he was at the end, standing in front of the last door on the right.

He slowly stretched out a hand and let the calloused tips of his fingers graze the smooth metal of the knob. It twisted under his hand releasing the lock, and the boy gently pushed open the door. The ethereal glow of the woman's pale skin in the moonlight was lost on him, and his steady steps did not falter. Motionless she lay in bed, her eyelids fluttering as she dreamt. The indent beside her in the bed signifying where her husband, now dead in the doorway, had slept. He poised the knife above his mother, his vacant eyes showing no sign of seeing her at all.

The woman's mind conjured pleasant pictures, of her husband and son and herself as the happy wholesome family they had been mere months earlier. Her lips curled into a smile as the men in her life argued good naturedly in lounge unaware of her presence. There was nothing of recent tantrums and elusiveness. And she was happy to revel in what was, if only for a few hours. Before the nightmares, before the anger and hostility and most of all, before Elizabeth.

And then, the pictures ceased.

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